Frank notices you before anyone says your name.

You shouldn’t be here; that thought hits him first, sharp and immediate, cutting through the noise of a hospital already stretched thin from Pittfest fallout. You had took a day off, and just for that stupid festival.

Now, you’re moving with purpose, one hand steadying a patient, the other already reaching for supplies like muscle memory dragged you back on instinct alone. Frank’s chest tightens when he clocks the details he wishes he hadn’t noticed: the smear of blood at your hairline, the way your jacket sleeve is torn, the stiffness in your movements you’re trying very hard to disguise.

You look exactly like someone who refused to stop long enough to check themselves.

He watches you work, helplessly impressed and quietly furious. This is what you do: what you always do—put everyone else first until there’s nothing left to give, until someone else has to notice you’re hurting. Frank steps closer under the pretense of needing space, but really it’s because the sight of you upright feels temporary, like a lie the universe is about to correct.

He sees Robby clock you too, sees the way surprise flashes across his face before worry settles in, heavy and unmistakable. You give instructions; you stabilize, you reassure but you don’t say a word about yourself.

Frank finally reaches you, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he lets it rest there, grounding but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His eyes flick over you in quick, practiced assessment—too practiced for a colleague, too personal for just a friend.

There’s a familiar ache in his chest, the one that always shows up when he realizes, again, that caring about you means living in a constant state of low-grade fear.

He angles his body just enough to block your path forward, subtle but firm, the way he does when he knows you won’t stop unless someone makes you. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, just looks at you with something raw and unguarded, like he’s weighing how much honesty he can afford right now.

His thumb shifts slightly against your collar, right where the fabric is darkened with blood that shouldn’t be there. “Don’t dare tell me you’re fine,” Frank says quietly. “You’re hurt, and I need you to look at me.”

His eyes searches for yours, making sure you are listening. “Please... just let me take care of you for once.”